Get me Take Out of There

Eating out is becoming a problem. Somehow I manage to turn the staff against me quicker than a Britney Spears cover at a Black Sabbath concert. Today might have been a record, I managed it within seconds of walking through the door as we walked down the stairs. Maybe we didn't follow her quick enough, or I was frowning in the sunlight, but by the time she us stomped to a table, plonked down the menu, and demanded I 'enjoy!' I felt distinctly unwelcome. I mean, sure, I was in Pizza Express, but please, all I wanted was a smile. It's not like I was asking for a phone number. Our waiter came over and said 'hmflaluderimpafnic?' Pardon? I said. He said 'mfladerumbanquot?' I'm sorry? I replied. He huffed, sighed, and then loud and clear, as if he were talking to a two or eighty two year old shouted 'WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO DRINK?' Water!! I cried in despair, Just bring me water... The best was yet to come though, because when the food arrived it leapt off the plate, literally. Wildlife was flourishing faster than in my laundry bin, and I know which one I'd prefer to eat too; there was an ant in the Coke, one on the knife, and one in the pizza. Excuse me, I say, I asked for 'anchovies', not 'ants or peas'. I mean, I've heard of a garden salad, but that's taking it too far.